


kiss and swallow

by asphaltworld



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Come Eating, Established Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Victor POV, pumpkin patch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltworld/pseuds/asphaltworld
Summary: Roman and Victor have to skip town for a while. Victor copes as best he can.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	kiss and swallow

Roman drags a little rolling suitcase behind him, running over people’s toes with all 49.5 pounds of it. They’re not even in a rush to catch their flight. He just gets off on making strangers suffer for breathing the same stale air as him. Victor spent the night before sitting with him, weighing it to make sure it came in under 50 pounds so they could get through security and boarding without any inconvenient detainments. 

Zsasz hates flying. He’d drive across the country instead, if he could, but one of Roman’s  _ investments  _ just fell through spectacularly, in a shower of blood, so the most important thing is to leave the scene with a swiftness. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve had to pull out their extra passports and be Robert Sullivan and Zachary Valdez. But Roman still struggles with packing light, and it generally takes all night for Zsasz to talk him down to just one suitcase. He can always buy more luggage when they get to LA. It’s just not a good idea to spend even more time in the airport and wait around the luggage carousel. Not right now.

So Roman has his sturdy little case that he uses to scuff people’s shoes, and Zsasz carries a sleek black leather duffel bag. When they reach the airport bar, Roman orders Jameson and Zsasz gets a beer. They’re two rounds deep before Roman can bear to go wait in those hideous plastic seats. 

In Gotham City Airport Roman drools on Victor’s shoulder. There's a spreading dark patch on his pale blue button-down, but he just has to deal. Roman’s in a plain black suit, the plainest thing he owns, and Zsasz is buttoned into a powder blue shirt and khakis like a fucking math teacher. The goal is to look as little like themselves as they can, being two distinctive faces in Gotham’s underworld. Zsasz still has a face full of scars, but his arms and legs are covered up and maybe people will assume he’s a big war hero or something.   
  


Even Roman’s money can’t make a five hour flight go any faster. Victor shifts in his seat, wishing he had a knife on him to play with. Roman takes the free champagne and channels it into a nap. He looks soft and content, his face slack and eyes covered with a black satin mask while Zsasz tries to keep his eyes off any of the windows and thinks about borrowing a Xanax from Roman. It’s frowned upon, because he’s supposed to stay alert to keep Roman safe. Roman might forgive him this time. 

When the plane finally starts descending, Roman wakes up. He notices Zsasz’s white-knuckle grip on the armrest, or his nervous sweat, something, because he leans in close, digging his nails into Zsasz’s thigh and whispers, “Baby, relax for me. Just think about the hotel room and letting me inside you.” 

It’s gross and out of place in this sterile sky-prison. Zsasz can’t think about it. He won’t think about it. He frowns at Roman and shifts away in his seat.

Roman digs his nails deeper and a memory unfolds immediately, of Roman’s nails down his back, blunt but determined to leave trails behind. Victor’s back is smoother than the rest of him, and the scratches stayed visible for  _ days _ . Roman chuckles lowly, clearly satisfied by his ability to take Victor’s brain offline. 

It’s all so fucking romantic Victor stays distracted long after his dick has moved on from that prickle of interest. Roman wins, as per usual.   
  


Victor arranged for a rental car to be waiting for them at the airport. 

Roman’s used to the Downtown LA of 20 years ago, so he still avoids the area on principle. They stay at a hotel in West Hollywood that’s just a little less posh than people would expect from Roman Sionis. 

The desk clerk has his hair gelled into a neat little black fin on the top of his head and he handles Roman’s credit card with great care and smiles wide. He taps their fake names into the computer with neatly manicured nails. Roman looks at him with approval, smiles and banters back. 

Victor hates him so much.  _ This _ is what he hates about Hollywood. 

Those fingers are so breakable, like all fingers, no matter how well cared for they are. He loses himself in a fantasy for the amount of time it takes Roman to upgrade their room to a suite. 

Finally they make it to their hotel suite, and they can shut the world out entirely, letting it back in only for steak dinners and bottles of liquor. 

“I’m going to order us some real food. They try to serve the same slop to first class that they send out to all those tasteless schmucks in economy. Doesn’t fool me, not at all...” Roman trails off as he scrutinizes the menu. 

Victor flops down on the bed next to him. The bedspread is a satiny pale gold, what Roman would probably call tasteful. He leaves his shoes on the bed, because he can. 

Roman calls down to the kitchen with their order, and they have it within 30 minutes. All that’s left to do is sit back, eat, and watch the fucking TV. It’s a great opportunity to catch up with some reality shows.

Roman finally speaks up as the credits roll on the 3rd episode of Real Housewives. “I want to do something like we’d do back home. It’s still early. Only noon.”

“Boss, we can’t kill anybody while we’re here. That’s the whole point.” Victor makes sure to call him  _ boss  _ whenever he disagrees with him. It’s kind of sexy, but it also validates Roman. Two birds, one stone. 

“I mean, like, autumnal shit. I’m not gonna wear fucking t-shirts to stare at green leaves and tourists flapping their flip flops in  _ October _ . Let's at least get some good pictures out of this trip.”

So Victor searches for “best fall activity southern california” on his phone and shepherds Roman into the car. Roman changed into something seasonally appropriate, if not weather appropriate. He’s wearing dark jeans, a concession he only makes on vacation, and a rust red corduroy blazer. 

“Where is it we’re going again? Vine something? I know a  _ great _ restaurant on Vine. I know we just ate, but...”

“Irvine.” Roman sits up front with Victor in their stupid red rental car. It’s fiberglass and tacky in the exact opposite way of Roman. He wrinkled his nose when he first saw it, but somehow kept his mouth shut, and Victor’s impressed. That’s gotta be worth a blowjob, and he files it away mentally. 

There’s a ton of fucking traffic, obviously, because California is a cesspool. Roman complains about the traffic all the way down, even when Victor turns on the radio. His voice rises above Black Sabbath to point out a driver’s terrible haircut. 

  
  


Victor knows he might've made the wrong choice when he gets to the parking lot of the place and sees row after row of minivans. It’s not looking good.

“Okay, let’s get into this shit!” Roman says as he swings the door open and crunches his impractical boot into the gravel. Victor hopes he keeps that attitude up.

  
  


The pumpkin patch is full of weird, aggressive old people who keep getting in his way. They’re all chatterboxes, so when he hears a voice chattering away near him, it doesn’t register right away. It is annoying, though. Victor wants to focus on finding the best pumpkin for Roman.

Some little gray-haired lady grabs his arm, suddenly. Victor tenses. “I asked you a question.” 

“And what was that?” Victor asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Does he treat you nice?” She nods over at Roman so there’s no confusion. “My grandson, he had this boyfriend... Horrible man. Impatient, vain, and so greedy! He dressed just like that,” she nods at Roman. “He was always rude. He never remembered my name. I hope this one’s better than that. You deserve it.” 

_ She thinks I’m the chick in the relationship.  _ Victor was feeling just fine, a sort of calm content, but now he’s annoyed. Is it the bleached hair? Fuck. People keep  _ assuming _ things about him. He doesn’t like it at all.

They’re trying to lay low, Victor thinks unhappily. Normally he’d be all about liberating this woman from her skin. But he has a signature move and it’ll trace right back to him. He's gotta get creative. 

So Victor draws out the conversation, something he’d never normally do. He tries to raise his voice out of that gravelly thing it always wants to do, and make it sound friendly instead.

“Oh, yeah. He treats me  _ really _ well. We’re on vacation, you know, and the hotel room... God, it’s gorgeous. We can see the beach and everything!” He taps her on the arm, playing up his role as friendly gay man. Then he points back at Roman, turning her around. “It’s not his fault he’s such a clotheshorse! He’s definitely not stingy.”

This, this is the moment when she’s turning, disoriented spatially, and Zsasz can slip his hand into her purse and pull her wallet out. Her purse is one of those big, bohemian affairs that’s just one big pouch with a jumble of stuff in it. He finds a slim leather billfold and slips it into his own pocket. She’s saying something about how Roman has great taste,  _ and not just in clothes, hahaha _ but Zsasz isn’t listening. He’s buzzing on the same high he used to get as a teenage pickpocket, before he found his true calling. 

He keeps his placid smile on his face, though, hides his teeth. They better break this conversation up before Roman comes over with all his possessive rudeness, even though this woman clearly thinks Victor’s just a friendly queer. 

She smiles and laughs and Victor lets her leave with her life, feeling like she’s made a friend.

It doesn’t take  _ too _ long before he finds them-- the two perfect pumpkins. Roman nods his approval and Zsasz feels a deep, animal satisfaction at the gesture. 

The two of them scout out a suitable section of the pumpkin patch, with enough foliage not to look bare, but few enough people around. Victor takes Roman’s phone and crouches to get a better shot. Roman poses with a pumpkin held rakishly against his hip, knee angled out. There’s another shot where he looks into the distance. One more where he winks directly at the camera. Victor’s going to send that one to himself. 

Victor doesn't like to brag, but he’s the ideal Instagram boyfriend. 

Of course, these aren’t going on Instagram. The cops, or the assassins, or some goon from Gotham, take your pick, would be on their asses  _ so fast _ if they saw a photo of Roman out showing off. All it takes to find somebody is one photo with a landmark in the background, or a branded shopping bag, or the reflection from your sunglasses. It’s social media security. Victor took a whole seminar on that.

  
  


Back at the hotel, Victor is elbow deep in slimy orange guts. 

“Victor, that’s fucking gross,” Roman huffs. He’s fresh from the shower, wrapped in a towel like a present. 

“Boss, look. It’s you and me.” 

One is all slashed up with carefully carved tally marks, and the other pumpkin has a smug grin and great eyebrows. There’s an “RBS” under the face, to really drive home the point. Victor’s proud of himself. 

Roman’s frown smooths out. He stops in his tracks.

“That’s... really cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Zsasz, come here.”

Zsasz obeys, of course.

“Sit in my lap.”

There’s the damp white hotel towel between them. Roman’s strong thighs below. Zsasz wants to tear it off but that’s not how they’re doing things tonight; Roman’s in charge. 

“Get out of these clothes.

Victor unbuttons half his shirt and then slips out of it. lets it crumple on the floor. He undoes his belt, pulls down his pants. 

Roman sees Victor hesitate at his boxers. “Those too, c’mon.” 

Victor shudders and pulls the stretchy material down. 

Roman looks on fondly. “Baby. You really want to please me, don’t you?”

Well, there’s no point denying it. Even strangers on the fucking street can see it. 

“You  _ do _ . You know that, don’t you? You do such a good job. Such a good  _ boy _ for me. Do you like being mine?”

Victor nods dumbly. 

“Good. Open your mouth for me.” 

Victor lets his mouth fall open, damp and welcoming and roman’s fingers taste like fancy organic soap, something herbal, almost like a full-on salad. When he takes Roman’s dick it stretches his mouth so wide that his jaw starts to ache pretty soon, but this, he could do for hours. Licking and sucking until his lips go numb. 

“You like having me in your mouth?”

Victor's mouth is so sensitive, he can’t ever stop touching it. So  _ yeah,  _ he fucking likes having Roman slide up against it, push his way in. All he can do is nod and make a vague sound. 

“Your mouth is so soft it’s fucking crazy. Doesn’t make any sense.” He grins. “Gonna fill your mouth until you can’t think or breathe.”

Victor nods. Roman makes him so fucking stupid. 

He traces a hand over Victor’s dick. “You’re so hard. Dripping, almost.”

Victor tries to buck forward into his hand, because the touch is infuriatingly light, but Roman takes it away. He takes both his hands away, actually, and looks Victor in the eye to say, “Well, get yourself off.”

And Victor doesn’t have enough self-control to hide his fury at that. He hates when Roman loses interest in the middle of things.

“Don’t look at me like that. How many times did I catch you jerking off on the job when I first hired you?”

He lets it hang in the air, so Victor can really  _ think _ about it. 

“Yeah, way too many. Anyone else would have been out on his ass. But not you. So go on.” He waves a hand, and it’s so entitled and  _ hot _ that Victor actually listens. 

Victor’s hand slips over his dick, which is hard and messy with precum and it feels like it’s on fire, he needs it so bad. He squeezes his fist around himself, thrusting his hips forward and sure it’s undignified but it feels so good that he has to keep going. Roman’s watching intently, not even trying to feign boredom like he sometimes does to keep the upper hand. Watching Victor lose composure might be the only thing he likes more than feeling superior. Watching Roman watching him is so fucking gratifying. 

Victor comes on himself, hot and white across his masses of scars.

Roman leans in eagerly to massage it in. It makes a mess, gets him sticky all over and soon it’ll dry and be even worse.

“Heard this stuff’s good for your skin,” he says absentee as he traces his fingers over the crease where Victor’s thigh joins his hip. He looks up at Victor from under his lashes. “We could do a treatment for my face.” There’s the ghost of a smile there, and Victor’s dick twitches uncomfortably. It’s too soon after for him to be thinking about fucking again. He needs at least five minutes.

Roman strokes over his body, feeling up the muscle and the ridges. 

  
  


They’re stuck in California for at least another week. A few nights later, Victor convinces Roman he deserves to be fucked.

Victor’s in the bed, covered by the thin white sheet, and Roman just looks at him from a chair at the foot of the bed.

He can barely believe they’ve graduated to hotel bed fucks instead of bar bathroom, back alley bullshit. Roman himself has watched enough alley sex from his window to see that it’s not a great place for Gotham’s most wanted to get caught with their pants around their ankles. 

“I love fucking you, you’re so tight,” Roman says in a voice like he’s been stabbed. 

“Just me,” he pants.

“Oh? Pet’s making demands, now?” He’s too distracted to say anything really cutting. Victor fucking loves being called  _ pet _ .

“Only when it comes to this.”

There’s a real light in Roman’s eyes. “There’s no one but you. You’re the only one who exists. Fuck, fuck,” his jaw is slack, he runs a hand from his ass up to Victor’s thigh, “the only one I want to spread open like this.”

Doesn’t matter if he’s lying or not. Victor groans and tightens around Roman because he wants to feel it, now and tomorrow. Roman pushes his legs back, makes him take it deeper, and Victor wants whatever he can get. He can’t even process it. 

“Take it, fuck,” Roman chokes out, and he doesn’t warn Zsasz, but he can feel it, the pooling warmth inside him. 

It’s total fucking bliss until Roman goes to pull out and grimaces as Victor clenches reflexively and it’s way too much on his sensitive dick. 

Roman doesn’t always take care of him like this, but today he’s slipping two fingers in and pushing his cum deeper in. Victor’s saying, “Yeah, yeah,  _ boss, _ ” and it only makes Roman move faster. Eventually he reaches the spot that makes Victor turn inside out, and he cries out, comes explosively. Roman gets some on his arm. Roman’s enchanted, far from grossed out, and he presses down again, harder, and Victor’s noise is more of a snarl. His eyes are wet and if Roman keeps touching him there he might actually fucking cry. 

“That's enough,” he snaps, and grabs Roman’s arm. He stops moving right away, but leaves his fingers inside and smirks disgustingly. 

Victor drops his head back on the pillow. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

They still need to move hotels and hang out in this hell state a while longer before they can go back home. The Black Mask Club is probably a fucking shitshow by now, but he loves a good mess. So does Roman, no matter how much he likes to pretend he doesn’t. 

“Gonna lick it up, boss?” he says, just to piss him off. 

“Ugh.” Roman shudders, wrinkles his nose, and finally pulls out.

But it’s only so he can get closer, to crawl over to Zsasz and lap at bitter come. 

There’s a first time for everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> originally started for the Zaszmask week pumpkin prompt but then i started a new job and couldn't finish it :x  
> title from iamx song of the same name.  
> so, i know roman's a fancy boy but i feel like he also likes costumes and Dressing for Occasions so i wanted him in some Autumn Vibes Moodboard outfit. 
> 
> thanks for reading~


End file.
